Silken Rush E-Book

Amy Fisher

• Herausgeber: Amy Fisher
• Kategorie: Erotik
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 43

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2025

Beschreibung

SILK RUSH Forbidden Touches by Amy Fisher. In a chalet high above the Swiss Alps, a game begins with no rulesonly silk, snow, and longing. Isabelle de Roche, 37, Geneva prosecutor, wears her Wolford stockings like a second skin. She knows what she wants. And what she must not have. Alexandre, 18, her former stepson, knows every sigh of hers from the open bedroom door. He wants more. Much more. When a third woman enters the sceneÉlise, sensual, curious, with a penchant for open-crotch designswatching turns to touching. Touching to desire. Desire to a rush without boundaries. Three nights. One fireplace. One Chesterfield sofa. And the question: Who touches whom first? Luxurious erotica for readers who know the forbidden tastes sweetestwhen wrapped in silk. Amy Fisher writes like Wolford fits: tight, smooth, and exactly where it hurts. Reader. Contains: High-society setting in Geneva & the Alps Taboo themes (stepmother, younger man, voyeurism) Sensual details (Wolford, Swarovski, Baccarat) No violence, only consent & pleasure Trigger warning: explicit erotic scenes, power play, familial taboos (fictional, consensual). #SilkRush #AmyFisher #LuxuryErotica. Find out more about her world of fantasies at kopfkino.vip.

Leseprobe

Silken Rush

Forbidden Caresses

Amy Fisher

Author

Amy Fisher is a German bestselling author of erotic romance novels, renowned for her sensual, emotionally profound, and daring stories. She is an author who “needs to know,” and her words not only awaken the senses but also touch the heart. With an unerring instinct for the subtle nuances of passion, desire, and intimacy, the Munich-born author transports her readers into a world of forbidden fantasies and intense encounters.

Her works combine bold eroticism with heartfelt connections, illuminating the complexity of human relationships—from gentle seduction to the daring boundaries of dominance and devotion. Amy Fisher’s books are a must-read for anyone who values erotic literature with depth and authenticity. For more information about her fantasy world, visit kopfkino.vip.

Imprint

Title: Silken Rush

Subtitle: Forbidden Caresses

Author: Amy Fisher

ISBN: 9783691111132

© 2025 Amy Fisher

All Rights Reserved.

Contact: https://kopfkino.vip

Disclaimer

The contents of this eBook have been created with the utmost care. However, the author and publisher assume no liability for the accuracy, completeness, or timeliness of the information provided. Use of the content is at the reader’s own risk. Any liability for damages arising directly or indirectly from the use of this eBook is excluded to the extent permitted by law. External links (e.g., to https://kopfkino.vip) were checked at the time of publication; no liability is assumed for their content or availability.

Note on Similarities

Silken Rush is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and events are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to real events or locations is purely coincidental and unintended.

Prologue – The Open Door

The door stood ajar.

Solid oak, Baccarat inlays, Swarovski wall sconces scattering diamonds across the corridor.

Isabelle de Roche sighed—not in pain.

Alexandre, 18, barefoot in the half-light, held his breath.

He saw everything.

The Wolford Aurora, black, seamless, open-crotch.

The judge’s hand on her thigh.

The rhythm.

The climax.

And felt something shift inside him.

Not just arousal.

Claim.

“She’s mine,” he thought.

“Not yet.”

The door closed.

But the crack in his mind stayed.

Forever.

Silken Rush in the Alps

The helicopter had long faded away. Over Lake Lucerne lay a silence as deep as the snow on the peaks. In Chalet “Aurum,” only the Swarovski crystals in the chandelier and the quartz-stone fireplace still glowed. Baccarat glasses and Lalique decanters stood everywhere, the air scented with cool sandalwood and white truffles. A cello by Max Richter sighed softly from the Bang & Olufsen speakers, and Violetta de L’Aurum sat exhausted yet warmed by Dom Pérignon Plénitude 2 in the cashmere armchair of the salon suite that filled the room.

Her husband Léonard sat slightly tipsy opposite her on the Chesterfield, holding a Cohiba Behike. He no longer sipped quite so pleasurably from a glass of Macallan 50 Years Anniversary. It was three in the morning, and all the guests had vanished by private jet. Violetta crossed her black, pearl-embroidered Wolford Aurora legs and looked at him. His gaze immediately fell to her calves, and she knew the night was not yet over. All evening they had danced, mostly with other partners. Violetta had felt a gentle sting as he danced with her best friend Bérénice. In a tight couture gown of black Elie Saab silk, with her full bosom and long legs emerging from the scant hem in gossamer, skin-toned Agent Provocateur Étoile embroidered with hand-stitched platinum stars and towering black Louboutin pumps, Bérénice had danced close and dreamily with Léonard several times.

Of course she knew his passion for silk and fine fabrics; Violetta had confided it to her in an intimate moment at the Gstaad spa. Violetta too had danced closely with other gentlemen, even kissing one in an unobserved instant. When he began reaching under her open gusset, however, she had stopped him gently but firmly. That belonged to Léonard alone. Yet strangely: the thought of him touching Bérénice had sparked not only a hint of jealousy but a soft, deep arousal.

She felt a pleasant warmth as she watched him tentatively stroke Bérénice’s breast in a moment they believed unobserved. Again and again she imagined how it would be if Bérénice caressed him, if he lay inside her. Somehow the idea excited her. Would Bérénice enjoy it? Violetta decided to confront him—and her. A threesome? Heavens no. Or… perhaps? Just as she was about to stand, the powder-room door opened. Stiletto heels clicked across the Carrara marble, and Bérénice entered.

“Why are you both looking at me like that?” she asked in a soft, slightly tipsy voice. She stood in the middle of the salon, her freshly painted lips in Rouge Dior 999 glowing in the diffuse firelight. “Did you think I’d gone? I wanted to sleep here. I can’t drive anymore.” She often stayed in the guest room; after all, she came from Geneva. “Any more champagne?” “Of course,” said Léonard, gesturing to the bottle on the coffee table. “There’s a little left.” Smiling, she glided around it and sat beside him. Violetta did not miss how his eyes lingered on her long, shimmering legs. “Make yourself at home,” Violetta said, taking a sip from her Baccarat glass.